


Eden: And Other Short Stories

by rostropovich



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Biblical References, F/M, Jack pov, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: Excerpts from a book Jack Rackham will never write.





	Eden: And Other Short Stories

The copse beyond the old shack with the eroding rafters and the dusty vaulted ceiling beckoned, and we set out, clothes sticking hotly to our skin in spite of the sea breeze that favoured us every so often, though it tapered off as the broad green leaves grew denser. Anne led the way, following the rough, familiar path to the clearing in the copse of the jungle thicket. She pushed back the elephant ears of leaves with one hand, and held a burnt crust of bread in the other.

In moments like these, when she could shrug off her stone exterior and tie her hair up into a tangled bun on top of her head, she could hold forth on nearly any subject. She rambled on and on and on on the State of Things, and the Things She Liked, and the Things She Didn't. It was a rare streak I loved in her; her idling, wayward conversation fed my mind as the burnt bread fed our stomachs. We had no problem passing the nearly insufferable afternoon, wandering along the hutia paths, becoming increasingly distracted by flinging poison berries and plantains at each other. It was always thus between she and I, a companionship of opposites; serious at one moment, foolish the next; virtuous one day, criminal the next. 

Before she, a southpaw, managed to release a brown, rotting plantain at me, I grabbed her hand quite suddenly and brought it to my lips. She regarded me with an expression I had never seen her offer another living soul; it was only for me. 

"You tempt me," I said and she kissed my mouth. 

We reached the small pool of brackish water fed by both the mountains of the island and the high ocean tides and held onto the smooth trunks of the mangroves as we tested the water. The great, drooping tendrils of the trees that sprung up from the water reminded me of the sagging weeping willows of England. I told Anne, but she had been too young to remember much of anything of England before she was moved to Carolina. She was born in the city and I was born in the countryside. 

I took my boots off and rolled my pants up and sat on a thick mangrove root, leaning against the trunk. Anne followed and stood before me. Her naked toes touched mine and a war between our toes broke out. A truce was managed only when Anne attempted a swift kick to my shin and I grabbed her around the waist. I put my knees together and she stepped forward to sit on them, one leg on either side of mine. A bat flapped overhead; Anne stared up at it and at the ceiling of leaves permeated by the intense rays of sunlight.

"S'like a church," she said plainly. 

"It's much better than a church," I said, and it might have been too bitter, so I added, "I miss this when we're at sea."

Unfazed by whether my tone was too strong or not, Anne's eyes fixed on me. "The mangroves?"

"The way you see the world." She didn't smile, she rarely smiled. But her cheeks brightened and her brow set in equivalence of one. I was often known as the one of us with wit and oratorical skill; I had never thought that had some effect on her. Anne's hand ran from my stomach up to my chest and, from there, to rest at my bare collarbone. Her hands were sweaty, but so was I. I straightened, having been slouching against the tree, and we kissed. 

Kissing Anne was akin to breathing in that it was the most natural thing in the world to me, there were countless ways of doing so and countless emotions to display in doing such, and, most importantly, that if I did not do it several thousand times daily, I might die. Her were lips rough with the sun and her body was, in most places, marred and weathered. She was not a marble bust or a statuette of bronze, but a temple eroded and swallowed by the ocean surf. It was easy to forget that softness still resided somewhere in her person. And, more importantly, that I knew where to find it. 

"I know you like Adam knew Eve," I said.

"Fucking blasphemer," said she.


End file.
